


and the stars look very different today

by blueblueelectricblue



Series: a star spinning in orbit, lighting up the sky [5]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Diapers, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Non-Sexual Age Play, Wetting, like just... SO MUCH hurt/comfort you guys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-30
Updated: 2019-03-30
Packaged: 2019-12-27 00:11:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18292943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blueblueelectricblue/pseuds/blueblueelectricblue
Summary: AIM suddenly gets good at kidnapping and HVAC design, but they still suck at logistics and follow-through. Steve just wants to go home - and thank goodness Daddy is there when he does.(Or, the one from Steve's POV.)





	and the stars look very different today

In retrospect, maybe letting Clint plan their great escape hadn’t been such a great idea after all. For one thing, he doesn’t know _shit_ about air vents. Plus, Clint’s hearing aid batteries died two days ago and that’s not exactly optimal for communicating in a windowless shaft. And for another thing, neither he nor Steve had thought that AIM would be so good at designing an escapeless basement, but here they are, lying in a heap on the concrete floor of their shared cell.

It’s probably good that Steve had broken Clint’s fall, because if it had been the other way around, it would have been even worse than it is now. Steve feels like every single one of his ribs is broken and maybe more than that, but he can’t really move under his own power enough to tell. Which is fine, because he’s already in a tremendous amount of pain, and Clint’s definitely snapped his collarbone. But hey, at least Steve hadn’t fallen _onto_ Clint, because he’s pretty sure he could actually flatten the guy, Roadrunner-style.

The whole thing had started when the Avengers received a call for help dealing with some bio-terrorists threatening to unleash super-cholera in the middle of Gdansk, or something like that. Plague, maybe? Steve honestly can’t remember anymore. It isn’t important anyway, because although the call from the Polish authorities had been real, the terrorist attack was a trap that everyone except the two of them had managed to avoid. Just Steve’s luck — and he’d had such a nice weekend planned with Bucky, too. But it’s also partly his own fault, because he’d been trying to get everyone out and just wasn’t fast enough. AIM had tasered Clint and Steve within an inch of their lives and managed to jab them with knockout juice (specially modified just for Steve, most likely), and then they’d woken up underground in the middle of Christ knows where.

The first thought Steve has upon waking is, _Bucky’s going to kill me if I’m not home in time for_ The Good Place _._ The second is, _Well, at least it isn’t HYDRA._ Which probably aren’t the healthiest of first thoughts to have after waking from a dozen hours’ involuntary nap, but, eh. It is what it is, as Mrs. Barnes used to say.

AIM doesn’t torture them — well, it’s not _exactly_ torture if Steve goes by the American military’s current bullshit standards, but it’s still deeply unpleasant. He and Clint manage to successfully stonewall the goons in charge of interrogating them, giving true but incredibly trivial information about the Avengers and what’s left of SHIELD, because come on, what are they, amateurs or something?

Mostly, AIM’s plan just seems to involve boring the two of them to death. Food comes regularly, even though neither of them ever eats much of it (if any) because it’s definitely drugged. At least Steve had gotten some entertainment out of it that first day, watching Clint babble about baby giraffes before passing out sideways on his bunk. The guards never talk to them, and they aren’t let out except to not-answer questions about anything important. There are no books, no newspapers, no nothing. Because there are no windows or clocks, especially in the interrogation room, it’s hard to keep track of the days, so Steve gives up trying after a while.

And then there’s the whole sleep deprivation thing that AIM tries on them for a bit. It’s not boring, but it’s also terrible in a completely different way and only makes Steve and Clint hallucinate all kinds of weird shit; the experiment stops when the head goon realizes that they’re not going to get anything useful out of them that way. When he gets home, Steve’s going to sleep for approximately five days. Right after he finishes giving Bucky the bear hug of his life.

That’s really the worst part about this, knowing Bucky must be losing his goddamn mind right now. Steve misses everything else about Bucky, too, and as he’s settling in on the vibranium-hard top bunk to sleep one night (or so he presumes), he catches himself thinking, _I want Daddy_ and has to blink hard for what seems like forever to clear his eyes. Steve knows that if he lets himself give into these thoughts now, he might not be able to stop. And Clint can’t know about this, not ever. Nobody can ever know — not because he’s afraid or embarrassed, necessarily. (Although that is certainly a factor.) It’s just that this is for Steve and Bucky alone, the one thing that belongs to them and only them.

Steve still winds up daydreaming anyway. He always manages to cut himself off before he can get too deep, but it’s so lovely to pretend just for a little while that he’s warm and curled up in Bucky’s lap being rocked to sleep, instead of in a too-small, too-dark, too-hard cell. The cell is what brings Steve back from those daydreams, because it’s impossible to ignore forever, and he always finds himself wishing he’d never let himself do it in the first place because his longing for home and for safety is so overwhelming.

So when Clint says that he’s tired of trying to brainstorm the perfect plan because there never is any such thing as a perfect plan and they should just _do_ something already, Steve doesn’t argue too much. Which is…a mistake, as he finds out all too viscerally.

Their attempted escape is pretty much dead on arrival, and Steve finds that the only thing worse than lying on a concrete floor while his insides scream is trying to get up from the floor, so he stays there. Clint brings him a pillow, which is nice. Steve finally does get to sleep for a couple of hours, if only because he overhears some higher-ups at the facility talking when they think he’s unconscious and decide that killing Captain America by moving him after a 30-foot fall (with no shield as a shock absorber) is probably bad PR. That, weirdly, makes him feel sort of better about it, and so he finally lets himself drift off without worrying about being woken up and dragged into a laboratory or interrogation room.

Also, Steve’s beginning to suspect that AIM doesn’t _actually_ know what to do with him and Clint. Good to know that even though they’re great architects, they’re still really shitty at being the bad guys.

They get rescued pretty soon after that little eavesdropped conversation, though — less than a day, tops, Steve estimates.

He can mostly sit up now by the time Natasha comes sprinting into the brig, takes one look at them, and yells over her shoulder, “They’re in here! Dr. Cho, Dr. Banner!”

On the one hand, Steve is glad that maybe they can help with the stabbing pains encircling his whole torso, but on the other hand, he’s already had a lifetime of doctors and hospitals and being poked and prodded. Scarlet fever had been the worst — confined to a pitch-black room for weeks to avoid damaging his eyesight, nobody allowed in or out except for his ma or the doctor. Not even Bucky, and that had been the worst part, not getting to see him out of fear he might get it too or take it back to his little sisters. Ma had done her best to keep his mind off it, and Steve will always love her for that and so much more, but he has no desire to repeat anything remotely like it ever again.

But hey, at least Tony’s found Steve’s shield and brings it back to him as he’s being loaded onto a stretcher and not arguing about that for once, either, and boy does _that_ freak everyone out. But he’s tired, dammit. And he hurts all over. Also, nobody had given him a choice in the matter. And _Clint_ gets to have a stretcher, even though he only has a busted collarbone and can walk perfectly fine.

“How _did_ you find us, anyway?” he asks Bruce, who walks alongside his stretcher holding up an IV bag of saline and painkillers.

“JARVIS, mostly.” Bruce pushes the bridge of his glasses with his ring finger. “Wanda did the rest. We’re sorry it took us so long. We hadn’t realized that AIM’s camouflaging approach had gotten so sophisticated and only figured out that part of it yesterday. So once we updated the algorithms, we got three hits on where you’d most likely be. And you happened to be at the first site JARVIS came up with.”

“Well, I’m glad you guys showed up when you did. They’re still really shitty at actually being villains, though. I mean, look at us, we’ve only got some broken bones.”

Bruce laughs softly. “Most villains are shitty at it. That’s why they get caught so often.”

Steve closes his eyes for a moment; the underground facility’s fluorescent lighting is really starting to make his head throb. “Hey, what day is it?”

“October 23rd,” Tony calls over, because he is irredeemably nosy and of course had started listening once JARVIS was mentioned, probably so he can preen some more about how amazing he is to have created such a fantastic AI. It’s not that Tony is wrong about that, but Steve isn’t gonna just _hand_ it to him. Christ, he’s as bad as Howard sometimes. Not that Steve would ever, _ever_ say that out loud. It’s not worth the hissy fit.

“We were here for ten days?”

“Eleven. Did you get hit in the head? I know you were an art major, Rogers, but I thought you could still count to twenty, at least.”

“You’re not funny, Tony.”

“No, I’m being serious right now. You might actually have a concussion, you know. That’s why I asked.”

“It’s hard to tell the difference most of the time. But I didn’t hit my head, and I don’t see an M.D. after your name on any of our memoranda of understanding.” Steve lets his head drop back onto the stretcher again, impossibly exhausted and wanting the one person who isn’t here so badly that he has to squeeze his eyes shut for a moment to keep from giving himself away.

“I have seven Ph.D.s, you know.” Of course Steve knows. Tony never shuts up about them. “Cheer up, your boyfriend’s meeting you at the hospital, where you and Clint will be arriving _very_ soon thanks to my fabulous and uncanny ability to think ahead and bring along the Quinjet with a medical bay.”

“That was _me_ ,” says a familiar voice on Steve’s other side. “ _I_ brought it.  _I’m_ the one who had to set up the flight plan and clear it with the FAA and then pilot the damn thing all the way to Riga. You’re welcome, by the way.”

“Hey, Sam.”

“Hey yourself. You look like shit.”

“Thanks, Sam.”

“No problem.”

Steve can’t help but smile at that, hearing the laughter in Sam’s voice. _At least some things haven’t changed_. It’s always a good sign when Sam gives him the business — it means that Steve’s not as bad off as he feels. But the exhaustion wins before he even makes it to the surface, and the next thing Steve knows, he wakes up in an unfamiliar setting once again. Only this one is clean and has windows…and Bucky snoring lightly in an incredibly uncomfortable-looking chair next to Steve’s hospital bed, looking like he hasn’t shaved or slept in a week.

“Hey, Bucky.”

Snore.

“Bucky.”

Snore.

“ _Bucky_!” God, Steve hopes he hasn’t yelled so loud that he’s disturbed the other patients, but it does the trick.

“Steve!” Bucky’s face transforms instantly from drawn and pale to relieved as he jolts awake. “I thought you were going to sleep clear through Halloween.”

“And miss wearing our couples costume to Tony’s blow-out party?”

Bucky laughs. “Yeah, uh, I hope you’ve figured out what we’re doing for that, because god knows I haven’t.”

“I had some time to think about it.” Steve holds his hand out to Bucky, who takes it and laces their fingers together.

“Jesus Christ, Steve, you scared the shit out of me,” Bucky says after a minute or two, his voice a little rough. “But I’m really, really glad you’re home.”

“Me too.” Steve squeezes Bucky’s hand. “I missed you.”

“I missed you too.” Bucky squeezes back. “The good thing is, it’ll be a quick trip back to the apartment when they let you out of here.”

“Am I at Georgetown?” Steve can see some of the city through the window, but it’s hard to tell distance from this angle.

“Yeah. Clint’s down the hall, squawking about why can’t he go home yet, he doesn’t need to be under observation, it’s just a collarbone, give him a sling.” Bucky makes the blah-blah motion with his metal hand. “But if all goes well overnight, you might be healed up enough to come home tomorrow.”

“That soon?” Steve’s not unhappy about that, just surprised. “I feel like shit.”

“Of course you do; you broke every single rib in your entire body, goofball. You’re damn lucky none of them ended up on the outside of you. And your left hip is fucked up. It’s not broken, but you’ve gotta stay off it for at least a couple of days.”

“How many retirement community jokes have Sam and Natasha made so far?”

“By my last count, 38.”

“It’s like they aren’t even trying.”

“That’s what _I_ told them. They just made fun of my cardigan and then I went to find coffee.”

Bucky is like a coffee bloodhound; he can sniff out coffee literally _anywhere_. And he absolutely will drink it, even if it’s shitty hospital vending machine coffee. There’s a whole pyramid of empty paper cups on the windowsill as proof.

Steve squints. “Isn’t that actually _my_ cardigan?”

“Technically, yes. Anyway,” he says cheerfully, changing the subject like Steve doesn’t know what Bucky’s all about, “I convinced the rest of them to give you a week off before they even breathe the word ‘debrief’ at you.”

“Thanks, Buck.”

“Oh, hey, I just remembered that I brought the iPad. Do you wanna catch up on _The Good Place_?”

“You haven’t been watching it without me, have you?”

“Wouldn’t dream of it, gorgeous.”

“Why don’t I believe you?”

Bucky just grins.

Visiting hours are up before either of them is ready to part, and Steve finds himself rather absurdly wishing he could throw a fit or pull rank or _something_ so they’ll let Bucky stay. He’s fully aware that Bucky’s going to be right back in his room as soon as he’s physically allowed to in the morning, but it’s still going to be a lonely night. And Steve’s cold, too, because all hospitals are cold and he hates them, and he thinks, _I want my blanket_ as the nurse flicks the light switch and tells him kindly to try and get some rest.  

But he can’t sleep. It’s too cold, too noisy, too lonely. At least the morphine’s keeping most of the pain at bay; Steve tries not to think about how that, too, has likely been calibrated to his metabolism. Steve pulls the sheets up to his chin, fighting the urge to stick his fingers into his mouth because god, what if someone came in and saw him? This is awful and he wants to go home and he wants to go home _now_ and he’s a grown man and can sign himself out right this second if he wants to, nobody could stop him because that’s the law, he’s Captain America and who’s going to argue with him? Except…

Right before Bucky had left, he’d leaned down to kiss Steve, tipping up his chin with metal thumb and forefinger and resting his other, warm hand on the back of Steve’s neck. And then he’d whispered so the nurse couldn’t hear, “Be good, Steve. Listen to the nurses and the doctors until I come back in the morning. They’ll let you out of here as soon as they think you’re ready, but you have to give yourself a chance to heal so they can do that, okay?” which had made him feel kind of silly, like he can’t be trusted to behave himself, but it had also been reassuring.

And Steve really, really doesn’t want to be in trouble with Bucky. Not that he yells, or spanks, or anything like that. It’s just that Da— _Bucky’s_ disappointed face is worse than either of those things.

In the end, Steve doesn’t get much sleep anyway because he’s interrupted about every half hour to have his vital signs checked. It’s honestly almost worse than AIM; the hospital staff is _way_ more competent at knowing what to do with people. And the day shift brings a whole new wave of them, bright and cheery, and Steve finds himself forced to match it because he can’t afford to have a candy striper complain about how rude he is on Twitter despite the fact that he feels like a steamroller ran a few laps over his torso.

It’s such a relief when Bucky finally comes into the room cursing the goddamn Q Street traffic, because Steve isn’t sure how much more he can take of having to perform for everyone. His whole body hurts and he’s just so tired and is starving and has literally just been brought back from an underground mad-scientist bunker after almost two weeks of being cut off from everyone he knows and yet _still_ he has to be goddamn Captain America, even in a hospital gown, unable to walk without assistance. Having to turn on that personality is sometimes almost too much when he’s feeling just fine, and this — Steve just wants to hide under the sheets until they go away and leave him alone.

Bucky, always observant, picks up on his mood and manages to quickly but subtly steer the conversation with the physical therapist and attending doctor toward the notion of Steve’s discharge. Fortunately, his prediction from last night comes true, and a little after noon, Steve’s allowed to put some clothes back on (which means Bucky does it for him) and sign some papers. Steve has to promise to stay off his feet as much as possible until tomorrow and to not engage in any strenuous exercise for ten days, plus agree to follow-up visits, which he does quickly. Steve would agree to almost anything if it means he can go home and stop having to be nice. He even submits to being wheeled out to the taxi, because they’re not going to budge on that one and Steve’s too tired to fight about it.

The traffic going home isn’t too bad, although it’s still the District, so it takes longer than Steve wants. It’s better with Bucky’s arm wrapped firmly around his waist to keep him from being jolted too much when they hit the inevitable potholes, but Steve is so glad to see their apartment building that the length of the ride doesn’t matter anymore. It’s slow going up the few steps to the foyer and into the elevator, then to their front door, even with Bucky’s help. But they manage, despite Steve’s tenuous grasp on adulthood slipping with each hop-step braced against an unbreakable vibranium arm.

“You want to stay in here or set up in the bedroom?” Bucky asks him.

“Bed?”

“I think that’s probably a good idea. More room for you to spread out.”

Steve’s silent until he’s sitting on the bed and the exhaustion and loneliness and fear and pain crash into him all at once. He tells himself, _I’m not going to cry, I’m not going to cry, Bucky doesn’t need this right now, for Chrissakes, don’t give in, you’re a grown man and you’re home and nobody died_. For a minute he believes that he’s going to manage everything just fine until he realizes it’s already happening.

“Aw, Steve.” The mattress dips under the weight of Bucky sitting down next to Steve and pulling him close, but carefully so he doesn’t hurt Steve more. “It’s gonna be okay. You’re home now.”

Steve wants to say something, but he can’t. The words just won’t come out and he buries his face in Bucky’s shoulder, unable to explain that he’s had to hold all of this in for almost two weeks and he had to do all of it without Bucky there and it’s been too much, but he still makes an attempt anyway. But the more he tries to talk, the worse it is, and he cries even harder, hating himself for not being able to stop.

Bucky gives his hand a light squeeze and uses his Daddy voice, which cuts through the fog somewhat. “Hey, love. I know you’re really upset right now, but you’re gonna get sick if you don’t calm down a little, and I know you don’t want that. Can you try and take some deep breaths with me?”

Steve manages something like an affirmative noise, even though he’s still crying into Bucky’s t-shirt and getting it all snotty.

“I know you can do it, Stevie. Just follow me, okay?”

Steve does, and the extra oxygen to his brain must help because the tears end sooner than he’d expected, leaving him feeling even more tired than before. He clings a little more tightly to Bucky, who strokes his hair until he manages to get the sniffles under control.

Bucky reaches over to the box of tissues on the nightstand and grabbing some to mop up Steve’s hot, wet face. “You sure have a lot going on in your head right now, don’t you?”

Steve nods.

“I thought so. I don’t need you to talk if you’re not up to it, but I’m always here if you want to.” He kisses Steve’s cheek. “All I want to know right now is if you want Bucky or Daddy.”

He holds up two fingers to indicate the second choice, as if Steve hadn’t wanted Daddy since he’d first stretched out on a narrow metal cot with no pillow in a room with no windows, which he then sticks into his mouth to suck on. Steve’s already acted like a huge baby, so why pretend anymore that he’s a grown-up? He isn’t, not right now. He used to suck on his fingers like this when he was nervous or upset or having a hard time sleeping, despite his ma’s best efforts to get him to stop. But Steve had grown out of it eventually and his teeth didn’t wind up all crooked, much to her relief.

Daddy pulls open the nightstand drawer and fishes out a pacifier. “I don’t want you getting sick, Stevie,” he explains, gently pulling Steve’s fingers from his mouth and replacing them with the pacifier. “Now, please stay here for just a minute. I’m going to get you some water and when I come back, we can get you all set up and comfortable, okay?”

Steve nods, and it’s easy to do what Daddy asks because he doesn’t feel like getting up anyway. Just making it in here had been enough getting up for him today, and he’s glad when Daddy comes back in no time at all with his favorite color-changing cup. Only it’s got a lid on it now with a little spout. Like he can’t drink out of it regular, or something.

He must be frowning, because Daddy sets the cup down on Steve’s nightstand instead of handing it to him, and says, “I thought this might be easier for when you’re lying down.”

 _Oh_. Steve hadn’t thought about that. A sippy cup isn’t so bad after all, then.

Daddy also produces a couple of granola bars from his other hand, the kind he makes from scratch because he doesn’t like the ones in the store and are wrapped in a napkin. He sets those down next to the cup. “I thought you could munch on those while I got lunch ready. But first I need you to wait for just a minute while we get you changed.”

He’s relieved to lie down, even though it hurts a _lot_ to change positions, and let Daddy put him in one of his overnight diapers. It’s thicker than the ones he wears in the daytime or in the evening and very soft, and as soon as the diaper is on, he feels so much better. Steve thinks maybe he’ll ask for a cloth diaper for bedtime, because they’re even softer, and they have patterns on them like dinosaurs and stars and even whales. And no more pins to stick him with, just Velcro. The vinyl pants that go over them are so much more comfortable than the rubber pants he’d had to wear as a kid, not as hot or stiff — Steve was sick so often for so long that he was fully toilet trained at night a lot later than most people and therefore remembers it more vividly (and not fondly). But this is good too. Steve likes this. They didn’t have disposable diapers when he was a real kid, and they’re still a novelty.

Daddy gets his fleece sweatpants on again, then peels back the covers and puts a bunch of pillows against the headboard. Then Daddy lifts him carefully and sets him back down just as carefully, helping him get situated until he’s more or less comfortably sitting, propped up by the pillows.

“I thought I’d make us some egg and cheese sandwiches since you didn’t have breakfast. And I have fruit salad in the fridge. How does that sound?”

Steve takes out his pacifier so he can grab one of the granola bars, now within his reach. Just before stuffing half of it into his mouth all at once, he asks, “With bacon?”

“Sure, with bacon.” Daddy smiles and ruffles his hair. “What do you want to watch while I’m getting that ready?”

“ _Adventure Time_ , please.”

“What a polite boy you are, always saying your pleases and thank-yous,” Daddy says in the tone that always makes Steve feel like he’s wrapped up in a hug, dropping a kiss onto the top of his head even as he’s also reaching for the remote control. The show is queued up within a few seconds, and Daddy makes sure Steve has his favorite blanket and his teddy bear before he leaves the room.

Soon, Steve can smell the bacon frying, and his stomach grumbles loud enough that for a minute he can’t hear Finn and Jake. He hopes it won’t take too much longer, because even though he’d eaten the granola bars, he’s still really, really hungry. He’s hungry most of the time anyway, unless he’s at home, because Daddy always makes sure there’s enough food in the fridge and cabinets for him. But he doesn’t have to wait for more than it takes to finish the second episode, because that’s when Daddy comes in with a tray full of bagel sandwiches and two bowls of fruit salad, pulling the forks out of his cardigan pocket once he’s got the food set on his own side of the bed.

“Let me sit down first and then I can hand it over,” he says to pre-empt Steve’s imminent complaint, and as soon as Daddy’s settled next to him, he passes Steve the bowl of fruit salad (“Put that on your nightstand when you aren’t eating it, please, the bed isn’t flat with us in it.”) and then gives him two sandwiches on one plate because that’s all that will fit for now. Steve does manage to wait until Daddy has served himself before tearing into the first one. It’s _so good_. The bagels are chewy-soft and warm, the bacon crispy the way Steve likes it, the cheese is all melted, and the eggs are fried just until they’re set and no more so they don’t get tough and dried-out. He’s asking for a third sandwich before Daddy’s even finished eating one.

“Steve, come up for air once in awhile, okay?” Daddy says, but his voice sounds like he’s trying not to laugh, and he puts another on Steve’s plate. “And drink some water, baby; you’re a little dehydrated.”

Steve doesn’t know how Daddy knows that, but he realizes that it’s true and that he is thirsty and empties about half the cup — the size you get at a baseball game as a souvenir — in a few swigs. “Good?”

“Yes. Thank you for being a good listener today.” Daddy reaches over to squeeze Steve’s unoccupied hand and then goes back to eating, switching to the fruit salad.

Steve switches to the fruit salad too, because he’d forgotten all about it and this has pineapple and strawberries and mangos and kiwi and none of those gross fruit salad ingredients like grapes or honeydew melon. Daddy must have made all this for him, because he knows Steve hates the kind that’s already made up at the store. It’s really good too, the first fresh _anything_ Steve’s eaten since he’d had to fly to Poland almost two weeks ago, and he hopes there’s more left in the fridge that he can have later.

“How’re you feeling?” Daddy asks him once they’ve both finished eating and he’s gotten Steve’s hands and mouth cleaned off with a spare napkin. Steve hadn’t liked that, but he hadn’t made a fuss, either.

“Full.”

Daddy laughs. “Good, lovebug. But I meant how’s your pain?”

“It hurts,” Steve admits.

“I bet. The doctor gave you some medicine to take for when it hurts too much. Do you want to take any now?”

Steve considers that for a minute. “What is it?”

“It doesn’t have a name because it was made for you, but it’s like hydrocodone. It will help with the pain, but it will also make you sleepy and feel a little floaty. It depends on if you’re okay with not being able to focus,” Daddy explains.

Steve knows the medicine Daddy’s talking about; they always give him some when he’s really hurt, and it does make him feel weird so he doesn’t use it very often. Mostly so he can sleep when he’s in too much pain to get there on his own. But sleeping doesn’t sound so bad now that he’s home and Daddy’s right next to him. “Can I have some, please?”

“Sure, Stevie. I bet you could use a long nap, too, huh?” Daddy pushes his hand through Steve’s hair to get it out of his eyes.

“Don’t need one,” he says out of habit.

“They could see the bags under your eyes from Mars without a telescope, kiddo.”

Steve takes the two tablets he’s offered and washes them down with the rest of his water, and Daddy puts his empty cup with the rest of the dishes. Then he lies down next to Steve, who’s got the pacifier back in his mouth, and holds his hand until he falls asleep.

When he wakes up, it’s dark outside, and Daddy isn’t in the room. But he must have come back in recently, because the sippy cup is back on the nightstand next to him and the water in it is still cold. Steve drinks almost all of it without stopping because his mouth is so dry. He’s gotten stiff from having slept flat on his back for so long, and it still hurts, but not as badly as earlier today. And he feels kind of funny, like something else is wrong. It takes a few minutes before Steve realizes what it is, and it’s that he’s wet and it’s getting cold and it doesn’t feel good at all. Steve shifts to try and get more comfortable until Daddy comes in, but he can’t get comfortable at all because it feels too icky and his left leg hurts all the way from his hip to his knee, and he whimpers in defeat.

Daddy’s hearing is almost as good as Steve’s, though, because he appears just a few seconds later, switching on a lamp and sitting on the edge of the bed next to him. “Hey, what’s wrong, Stevie?”

“M’wet,” he mumbles. It’s still hard to say it sometimes, but Steve has to if he doesn’t want Daddy checking him, which is even more embarrassing.

“Oh, is that all?” Daddy smiles.

“It’s cold,” Steve explains.

“Aww. Poor little lovebug. We’d better fix that right away, then.”

Daddy sets the changing pad on the bed next to Steve and smooches him on the cheek before he goes to get the supplies. Steve manages to unfold it and then wriggle and roll his way onto it by the time Daddy comes back from the bathroom with everything else, even though it’s painful. But Daddy doesn’t tell him he did a good job.

“Steve! You should’ve waited for me. Didn’t it hurt your hip to move around like that?” Daddy’s got his concerned face on now.

“Some.”

“Please don’t do that again,” Daddy says, still looking concerned. “I don’t want you hurting yourself even more.”

“I didn’t move that much.”

Daddy starts getting Steve’s fleece sweatpants down enough to get the wet diaper off him, making sure his t-shirt’s out of the way too. “Steve, baby, just please let me handle it. You don’t have to worry about helping me right now. Once you’re feeling better, you can help me as much as you want, okay?”

 _I’m not_ that _much of a baby_ , Steve thinks, pushing out his bottom lip to indicate how he feels about it.

“You don’t have to like it.”

“I _don’t_ like it.”

“I figured that, but you still have to listen to me. You’re cute when you pout, you know that?”

“Am _not_.”

“Not cute or not pouting?”

Steve outright scowls up at Daddy now, who just laughs and pats him on the knee. But his mood doesn’t last even through the end of the diaper change, as being clean and dry sparks a not-quite-instant reversal. Daddy helps him to sit up again and pulls him into a warm hug. Steve melts into it and they spend some time sitting just like that, not saying a word. This is _so_ much better than before, when there was nobody to hug him like this.

“How does dinner sound?” Daddy asks after awhile.

“Good. I’m hungry, Daddy.”

“I bet you are. You slept for five whole hours and didn’t have a snack.”

“Could I have one now?”

“Way ahead of you, kid. I just gotta get it out of the fridge. Be right back.”

Daddy returns with a plate of cheese and crackers and celery sticks filled with peanut butter, which Steve practically pounces on. “Thanks, Daddy,” he says around a mouthful of celery.

“You’re welcome, but please don’t talk with your mouth open, it’s gross.”

Through another mouthful, “Sorry.”

Daddy rolls his eyes, but he doesn’t really look all that annoyed. “What would you like for dinner?”

“Um.” Suddenly it’s too hard to make a decision because there’s about a million things Steve would like to eat for dinner, preferably all at once.

“How about pizza? Or would you like some chicken tenders?” Daddy asks, seeming to realize Steve’s got too many choices in front of him.

“Pizza. Can I have more fruit salad too, please?”

“Sure, Steve.” Daddy pulls his phone out of his pocket and starts the order, not asking him what he wants because Steve always gets the same thing every time, while Steve eats his snack. At one point, Daddy reaches over and snags a piece of cheese without even looking, which is kind of impressive, actually. “Okay, we’re all set. The app says it should get here in 45 minutes.”

“That’s a long time, Daddy.”

“You know they always come sooner than they say they will. And you’re still eating your snack. You know, I think that maybe — just _maybe_ — you’re going to survive.”

Steve sticks out his tongue. Daddy just laughs and swipes the last cracker from the plate. Steve picks up his final celery stick before Daddy takes that too. At least it isn’t french fries. Daddy always eats half of them from Steve’s plate when they go out for dinner instead of just ordering his own.

“Can we watch a movie when we eat?”

Daddy picks up the remote. “Yeah, we can do that. Which movie did you have in mind?”

“ _The Muppet Movie_.”

“That’s a good one. Let’s just put on some more _Adventure Time_ for now until the pizza gets here, what do you think?”

Steve could _always_ watch more _Adventure Time_ , and he nods, leaving Daddy to bring it back up on the TV menu while he finds his pacifier again. It gives him something to do while he watches. Steve’s never been very good at sitting still to do anything for long except draw or paint or color.   

They’ve just finished dinner, and Daddy’s in the kitchen cleaning up and refiling their cups of water when Steve realizes he needs to pee, like, a _lot_. When he shifts to try and hold on, it has the opposite effect, and he tries to stop because if he doesn’t stop, this will be an accident and Steve isn’t a baby. But he can’t, and it just keeps coming out until finally it doesn’t anymore. Steve’s too stunned to be upset, and he just stays put until Daddy comes back because he doesn’t know what else to do.

“Daddy?”

“Yeah?”

“I, um.” Steve’s voice drops almost to a whisper, but it’s not a secret; he just doesn’t want to say it too loud. “Had an accident.”

“Thanks for telling me. Let’s get you clean and dry. Easy peasy, lemon squeezy.” Daddy ruffles his hair.

“No, Daddy, an _accident_. I didn’t know I had to go and then when I knew I did, I started going.”

“Oh, love.” Daddy bends down to give him a hug. “That must have been a surprise.”

“I’m sorry.”

“What for? You were distracted. So was I. And you’re not exactly feeling your best, so your body is probably all mixed up right now. Don’t worry about it, okay? Accidents happen.”

“But.” Steve swallows hard. “What if it happens again?”

“Then we deal with it.”

“But what if it happens when I’m not—” He stops himself from completing the thought out loud. Steve would probably die on the spot of shame if this happened when he’s big.

“I don’t think it will, Stevie. But we’ll make extra sure it doesn’t happen.” Daddy squeezes him, but only a little so as not to hurt him. “I promise.”

Daddy’s promises are the one thing Steve can count on, so he does. Daddy gets him back onto the changing pad, but before he can get another disposable from the stack, Steve calls out, “Can I have the one with dinosaurs?”

“You want to wear a cloth diaper tonight?” Daddy asks.

“Yes, please.”

It’s so snuggly once it’s on and secured under a pair of blue vinyl pants, made of thick layers of fleece that keep him from closing his legs all the way, but Steve doesn’t mind. He could sleep on his side — which won’t happen tonight, but he would if he could — and not leak at all, even if he has a really scary dream or wakes up in the middle of the night needing to go. Steve happily settles back against Daddy to finish watching the movie, although he’s suddenly exhausted and starts to find it increasingly difficult to keep his eyes all the way open.

He’s asleep before the Muppets even make it to Hollywood.

The rest of the week passes much more slowly, partly because Steve is big for so much of it, and being big reminds him of all the things that he can’t do until the doctor clears him. No customary five A.M. run around the Mall and through the Tidal Basin, no lifting weights, no punching bags, no sparring. All he can do is watch TV or read or paint or go for walks with Bucky (who insists on going with Steve, like he’s going to faint in the middle of Kramerbooks), or, god help him, assist Bucky in the kitchen with cooking and (ugh) clean-up. He’d hoped that the follow-up visit six days after he got out of the hospital would yield the answer Steve’s been looking for, but the doctor is firm. Nothing even remotely Avenger-like until his next follow-up in another week. At _least_.

But there are visitors who help break up the monotony of recuperation. Sam comes to see him after two days at home, bringing a deck of cards and a case of beer that the three of them work their way through over the course of an evening. Natasha drops in the next afternoon, presenting Steve with an enormous tray of brownies from Firehook Bakery (“Of course I didn’t make these myself; I wanted you to actually eat them.”) and a mountain of gossip about ex-SHIELD agents. Even Clint stops by for a little while with one arm in a sling and the other hand holding a leash attached to his dog, a one-eyed, tatter-eared mutt improbably named Lucky, who thinks he’s a lap dog despite weighing something like 75 pounds. Lucky is _awesome_. It’s just a shame he has to put up with Clint for an owner.

“You look like you’re one second from busting through your cage and taking down some antelopes,” Bucky tells Steve as he paces their apartment for the zillionth time, two days before Halloween. It’s raining, so they can’t even go for a walk, which is very deeply annoying to him.

“I’m _bored_ , Bucky.”

“Yeah, I can tell by the way you’re wearing a path in the rug. Why don’t we go to the Natural History Museum or the National Portrait Gallery or something, get out of the house for awhile?”

“Because everyone else inside the Beltway is going to be at the Smithsonian and I don’t feel like taking pictures if anyone figures out we’re there too, that’s why.”

“We could go to a movie.”

“I’m sick of movies.”

“Then, fuck, Steve, what _do_ you want to do? Mope around and feel sorry for yourself all day?”

He scowls at Bucky. “I am not feeling sorry for myself.”

“Uh-huh. Sure.” Bucky doesn’t even look up from the newspaper he’s reading.

“I’m _not_.”

“Then tell me, what _could_ we do that would snap you out of your shitty mood?”

“I don’t know.” Steve rakes his hand through his hair, damp and clean after a long hot shower he’d taken after lunch. At least he’s now able to do _that_ without needing help.

“Neither do I, Steve. The only other activities I can think of are the ones I’ve been saving for when you’re little,” Bucky says.

“What do you mean, ‘saving’?”

“I mean I stashed away some fun stuff for when you get tired of Legos and pillow forts that I haven’t shown you yet.”

“Like what?” He’s curious now, even though he isn’t feeling particularly little.

“If I tell you, it’ll ruin the surprise.” Bucky lowers his paper. “Hey, I just thought of something. Why don’t you go and work on that canvas you started earlier this week?”

“I need more time to figure out where I’m going with it. Did I finish that art nouveau coloring book yet?” That 132-count Prismacolor pencil set is starting to wear out, though, Steve remembers even as he’s asking the question. He’s used it a _lot_ over the past few months. But then, the past few months have been fairly stressful, even by his standards.

“Steve, I say this with all love and respect, but how the fuck should I know? It’s your book, not mine.” Bucky regards him with raised eyebrows. “You’re being a real pain in the ass today.”

“I know,” Steve sighs. “I’m sorry. I’m just—”

“A really, really bad patient.” Bucky half-smiles. “You always have been.”

“It’s frustrating to get all these texts and alerts and not be able to respond to any of them. I could be helping people and instead I’m stuck here. Not stuck with _you_ , I mean, I like being with you,” Steve clarifies, “just stuck at home and not being able to keep up with my routine.”

“I know.” A pause. “Listen, I know you’re not actually little right now, but what if I brought out one of those activities I’ve got stashed away?”

Steve cocks his head. “Depends on what it is, Buck.”

“I’ll get it and you can decide if it sounds worthwhile,” he says, and disappears into the laundry room, returning with a huge roll of white paper and two Crayola-brand boxes of—

“ _Finger_ paints?”

“Yeah, I thought they looked like fun.”

“For when I’m wearing a baby blanket like a cape, sure.”

“Oh, don’t be such a fuckin’ grouch, Steve. What’s not to like about making art and getting messy? Most of the time you come out of the studio covered in paint,” Bucky points out.

Well, he’s got Steve there. “Where would I even use them, though?”

“I thought the kitchen, maybe. I bought a few of those plastic tablecloths from the dollar store to put down for easier clean-up. And the paint’s washable. I made sure.”

Steve takes one of the boxes of paints that Bucky holds out and inspects it, finally cracking a smile when he reads the label. “You got me _glitter_ finger paint?”

“Next best thing to gold leaf. And there’s some regular, non-glitter paints in the other box. Now, do you want to try it or not?”

Steve shrugs. “Might as well, what else have I got to do?”

It turns out that finger painting is _fucking awesome_.

“Bucky?” he asks after finishing his third creation and setting it aside to dry.

“Yeah, Steve?”

“Do they make metallic finger paint?”

“You know, I think they do.”

“Can we get some?”

“Sure.”

“Can we get some _now_?”

“I don’t see why not, if you’re up for a Target run. It might be pretty crowded, though. We’re getting close to rush hour.”

“I don’t mind as long as I can go with you, Daddy.” It just slips out without Steve’s meaning for that to happen, but it feels good and right.

Daddy smiles at him from across the kitchen table. “Okay, baby. Go wash your hands and we can get ready to leave.”

Target at 5 PM on a Thursday _sucks_ , but the metallic paint is totally worth it.

**Author's Note:**

> I appreciate everyone who's taken the time to read, leave kudos, and/or comment on my fics - it means a lot to me that people are enjoying a series I started writing purely based on the kind of stories I wanted to see here on AO3! I'm by no means out of ideas, but if there's anything you'd like to see in a future story, please let me know. :)


End file.
